


Ages of Man

by catteo



Category: Homeland
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/pseuds/catteo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ages of Man

_five_

 

He sees it in slow motion before it happens. Watches rubber hit the curb with detached fascination.

Asphalt rises up to greet him, dirty black and grey spattered through with the olives and ochres of moss.

Teeth bite hard against the inside of his cheek as he hits the ground, pain flaring through his skull like white heat. Dark, viscous red swirls past his face, cool against the ground.

He blinks slowly, still amazed by the riot of colour, a muted rainbow laid out before him.

A door slams and he feels his mother’s scream in his bones.

Then silence.

 

_sixteen_

The burn of antiseptic blazes across his knuckles though he barely feels the pressure of her hand. She murmurs nonsense to him, a steady stream of syllables he clings to like an anchor.

Her hand cradles his skull, thumb running along his hairline, breath hot on his neck. There’s a bitter tang of metal in the back of his throat and he can’t seem to work out if it’s blood or fear.

Probably both.

They’re both of them motherless now and she comforts him the only way she knows he’ll understand.

He falls asleep to the sound of her heartbeat.

 

_twenty-one_

Hot desert air burns his lungs and coils at his core, fueling his ever-present anger. He can feel her letter against his chest, creases worn smooth with time. It’s all there, her sorrow somehow bent into straight lines and curves, regret spilling between phrases.

He catches the eyes of a stranger as he stalks through the streets. The man stares back at him, devoid of emotion.

He raises his gun and shoots. The bullet hits dead centre, between the eyes. It’s not until the glass shatters that he realises he doesn’t recognise himself.

His dreams deafen him with their screams.

 

_twenty-eight_

He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t recognise a lifeline when it’s thrown to him. Washington in December is grey and bleak, but the cold chases away the last of the blazing sun, and it’s a different burn in his chest.

Inquisitive fingers ghost over scars that tell his story until he catches her hand with his own. She doesn’t ask, just presses her lips to the puckered skin above his heart and makes him forget.

But it’s a brief reprieve and they come when the snow melts with an offer he can’t refuse.

Her tears sound like goodbye.

 

_thirty-four_

The pain is familiar, blazing in his gut, stealing his breath. Every exhale blurs the edges of his vision with bright, white heat. It’s a stark contrast to the slick crimson that coats his hand and stomach. He doesn’t remember his blood being this hot. Wonders for a moment if he was in the desert so long that it became a part of his soul.

Clumsy fingers finally find the right combination of digits on the phone lying by his hip, every movement a new agony.

He feels her breath on his cheek, the whisper of his name.

Then silence.


End file.
